


Sanctuary

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, M/M, Pain, Psychological Horror, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Symbolism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In Sherlock's worst moments, sanctuary is always available, but it comes at a price.A sharp cry from an unseen animal echoed out through the quiet of the evening from the trees across the water, and Sherlock couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. A cool, wet breeze rose from the river, lifting his hair, and he shivered. Where was John?





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story was inspired by the included GIFs.
> 
> Contains potentially triggering elements. Please see warnings at the end of the fic. Warnings contain spoilers.

A set of footprints led down the grassy bank and through the sandy soil, skirting clumps of weeds and fallen twigs. Sherlock was following them. The sky was overcast, the setting sun hidden, and the gentle rushing roar of a body of water on the move swept over the soft ground to meet him. He followed the tracks down to the slate grey river, where they disappeared.

A sharp cry from an unseen animal echoed out through the quiet of the evening from the trees across the water, and Sherlock looked up sharply, wondering where he would spend the night, a tendril of anxiety squeezing his heart and making it stutter. Not a single sign of human life could be seen anywhere amongst the dense trees that surrounded him; he'd never been to this place before and its wild vastness frightened him. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. A cool, wet breeze rose from the river, lifting his hair, and he shivered. Where was John?

The river was too broad and deep to cross, but Sherlock found himself longing for water, his mouth desperately dry. He looked once more round himself in the eerie silence, the rustling of trees and the surging river the only sounds to reach his ears. It was only as he crouched at the river's edge, scooping frigid water into his palms and sucking it down greedily, that he knew what was making him uneasy: the birds were silent. It was time for their evening songs, but he hadn't seen a single one winging home to roost.

He stood, shook the water from his hands, and turned back towards the trees from which he had emerged. The tracks were gone. He stared in shock at the unaltered ground for a moment before shaking his head to clear it. He must have walked over them and smudged them out. He wrapped his coat more closely around himself, buttoning it shut, and walked back up the river bank towards the large, twisted trees whose canopies blotted out the sky as he entered the spaces between their trunks. The slow, serene life energy of the ancient beings surrounding him enveloped him, leaving his mind placid and quiet. He found a sandy hollow between exposed roots larger than his own thighs, the scratchings of a previous occupant evident in the soil. A mossy mound made a pillow for his head and he curled himself into the hollow, finding it fit his body perfectly.

He slept.

* * *

A horrific [scream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwiwqKE-moo) startled him out of his sleep, sending his blood coursing cold through his veins and jolting his limbs to anxious life. The world beyond the trees was still dusky and half-lit, unchanged, but under the trees from where the scream had come it was much darker. Another shriek ripped through the air. It sounded like a woman being murdered.

Sherlock pushed himself to sitting, hairs on the back of his neck rising. The leaves rustled above him and the river's distant roar carried on unabated, but the forest was otherwise as eeily silent as it had been earlier. How long had he been asleep? He would have guessed hours, but the sun had not set. It had not moved at all.

Another scream made him jump and he rose, shakily, to his feet, brushing sandy soil from his clothing. He thought about turning around and trying to cross the river to escape the screaming, but the thought of the deep blue water put an unease in him that outweighed even his primal fear of the terrible shrieks. There was nothing for it. He waited for another scream, which came as expected, echoing through the empty woods, and set off as quietly as he could in the direction of the sound. Sherlock couldn't help startling every time another scream sounded out, but he followed the noise deeper into the darkness of the wood. The screams grew terrifyingly loud as he approached their source. At last he rounded a tree with several broken branches that blocked his path, leaves obscuring his view. 

He pushed the branches carefully aside, crouching next to the tree's thick trunk, and saw a small clearing, dimly lit from above. There was not enough sun for grass to grow, leaving a bare patch of ground on which there was a red fox, crouched on its belly, yellow eyes wide and ears pinned back. Another fox faced it, standing, ears pricked forward and hackles raised. The fox on the ground was [crying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfVlCMVVdeQ) and screaming, cowering in front of its adversary. Sherlock cocked his head. _Was_ it an adversary? The cowering fox was creeping towards the other by inches, its tail waving gently, its manner almost solicitous.

The cowering fox's cries rent the air until it crept too near the standing fox, who lunged forward and seized the other's neck ruff in its teeth and shook its victim violently, drawing out anguished yelps and squeals. The cowering fox did not defend itself, or attempt to escape, but cried its pain until the other fox released it again. It then lay on the ground, sides heaving, crimson blood staining its fur, as the other fox licked the blood from its own nose and watched, muscles tense. 

Sherlock's heart was racing, his chest tight, as he watched the submissive fox rise to its feet and resume its cowering pose, tail curled protectively round its flank, unearthly shrieks of longing issuing once more from its throat. He almost stepped out of the shelter of branches to put a stop to things when the fox began creeping towards its dominant companion again, but remained still and silent and terrified by what he might see. The scene played out again, same as the last time, the screaming fox's pleas turning to cries of pain as the other fox began savaging him again with his fangs. 

_What are you doing!? He's going to kill you_ , Sherlock thought helplessly, desperately from his hiding place among the leaves. He couldn't move to stop the attack, his muscles frozen, and his body numb all over, as if he'd taken morphine. The tortured yelps of the submissive fox were exquisitely painful to Sherlock, each one like a punch to the gut.

With a final shake that sprayed droplets of blood on the sandy ground, the dominant fox released his victim and stepped away, leaving the other fox panting and whimpering weakly where he lay, blood running down his neck. The attacker turned and began to trot away into the trees, at which the injured fox struggled to his feet and let out another piercing, plaintive scream, like the ones that had drawn Sherlock to the clearing in the first place. At this, the dominant fox stopped and turned his head to look back. Another shriek from his partner and he turned and trotted back towards the clearing, interest clearly captured.

The two foxes touched noses, the submissive fox licking nervously at the snout of the other. The dominant fox then attempted to mount his partner from behind, but was only in place for a moment before his companion jumped away fearfully, pulling free from the grip of the dominant fox's paws and whirling round to face him, trembling, eyes wide. The dominant fox took a step towards the other, who promptly turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving a trail of blood droplets behind. Sherlock thought this was the end of the encounter, but another scream sounded out from some distance into the darkness, and the dominant fox hurried after it, leaping over a fallen log in his haste.

Sherlock lurched to his feet and chased after them, following some urgent instinct rather than any logical train of thought. He ran and ran after them and the foxes did not seem to notice him. Again and again, lured by the screams, the pursuing fox tried to mount his seemingly willing partner, who inevitably dodged away skittishly, vanishing into the trees. The pursuing fox would seem to lose interest and begin to wander off, only to be lured irresistably once more by a cry from the other fox. Sherlock kept chasing them, desperate to see a resolution - why, he didn't know - and coming round a tree tripped over an exposed root and fell onto his face in the dirt. He lay absorbing the pain of the fall for several moments, inhaling the scent of the moist earth that pressed against his cheek.

Raising his head he found himself looking into the empty eye sockets of a stag's skull. A pair of great antlers stretched upward from the forehead, seeking the distant sky, and a few of the vertebrae were still attached at the back of the head, but the rest of the bones were scattered around the nearby trees' roots, picked clean by time. 

Sherlock remembered.

He always forgot this place. Every time. Each time he came here was new, a rebirth, a discovery. And he realised that it was a blessing, for if he had to remember, it would cease to be a sanctuary and would become a Hell. Oblivion was what he needed to numb and soothe his torn psyche, battered to pieces along with his body.

He hadn't been here since...

_Serbia_

His back burned like fire and he wanted to throw himself into the river, but he found he couldn't move. Couldn't open his mouth to scream. He lay still on the ground as the pain engulfed him.

He remembered the stag and the wolves

spotted hide torn

fangs and great pink tongues dripping blood

_in Serbia_

The forest dissolved and Sherlock gasped, finding himself with his hands on the hard floor on which he lay, stripes of blood and saliva coating the vinyl tiles, the taste of iron strong in his mouth and dripping from his lips. His back no longer burned, but his ribs ached with every breath and he felt as though he'd been kicked in the face by a horse.

Someone was speaking. _I don't think he's a danger any more. Leave him be._ A pair of shoes stood next to Sherlock. Shoes he recognised. They were spattered with tiny drops of his blood.

_John. He'd found John._

~

[A song for Sherlock's sanctuary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4DCU_cBF0E)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Violence (John hurting Sherlock), abuse, PTSD, dissociation, disturbing content


End file.
